Pundits, Payday, Pronouncements and Peeves

My Pundit-in-crime
I don't believe it is imperative to agree on political matters in order to have a meaningful relationship with someone. But it is fun to have a pundit-in-crime (Pic). Someone with whom you can guffaw at McCain's grandstanding and subsequent backpedaling. Someone with whom to look up youTube clips of Chris Matthews owning people for entertainment. Someone with whom you can discuss the merits and/or partisanship of various New York Times columnists—David Brooks? Thoughtful and generally right of center. Maureen Dowd? Left-leaning and mean, but witty and insightful. Frank Rich? Bleeding heart liberal. Bill Kristol? Right-wing ideologue. It's great to have a pal who wants to have a VP debate-watching party. Bring on the chips, salsa, wings and (root) beer!

Pic is ridiculous. There's a Republican headquarters down the street from campus and there are signs plastered all over it that say: "Save Alabama, Vote Republican." I've been here for almost 15 years— I didn't give it a second thought.

But one day, out of the blue, Pic calls in a tizzy yelling, "Did you see that?! Save Alabama?? Save Alabama from what? What is this, freaking Birth of a Nation?! I'm going into that headquarters to ask them to clarify to me exactly what it is that voting Republican is supposed to save Alabama from." LOL.

The next day I asked him how his meeting at the Republican headquarters went. He said when he went in there and asked what voting Republican is supposed to save Alabama from, the guy in there smiled and said, "From non-Republicans." Hilarious.

Getting Paid
Most normal people get excited about the prospect of having a little bit of dough to roll around to have a little bit of fun on payday. You know you're broke when you get excited about paying bills and going to WalMart on payday. ::hyperventilating:: I can pay my bills on time! I can buy milk and bread! It's mindblowing how radically payday has evolved for me. I've gone from admiring my freshly done pedicures to nearly speaking in tongues upon discovering a 2-for-1 special on cartons of Peach Orchard Punch.

Being broke is utterly un-fun, but I will admit that small things begin to take on great meaning. Little things make you happy. Like, being able to bring home half a jug of Milo's sweet tea after a church get together. Enjoying a free concert that much more because it's FREE. Realizing you have one more squeeze of toothpaste left before you throw the withered tube away. Inwardly rejoicing as you catch the transit to and from campus because you're saving on gas. In a weird way, contentment is a little easier and simpler to experience.

Declarer of Things That Are Not as Though They Were
I talk to myself a lot. I didn't say I answered myself! Besides, I read somewhere that talking to oneself was a sign of intelligence. It's a little quirk, I guess. Along with that, comes talking to inanimate things. "Keys, where did you go?" Combined with my tendency to be a control freak, I find myself commanding things to be. My little pot of yellow mums drooping? "Didn't I tell you not to die? How many times do I have to tell you not to die? Live, I said!" Meanwhile, I flood it with water and sit it directly in the sun. But it works. A while ago, I killed a roach in righteous indignation. How dare it invade my abode? After wiping up roach guts, I declared, "From this day forward, I will never have to kill another roach in this apartment. Ever again." I added an "in Jesus' name" to seal the deal. Nary a roach after that have I seen.

I Hate When These Little Things Happen
1. When I'm dunking a tea bag up and down in a mug of hot water and suddenly the string comes loose.

2. When I get a tiny crack in my nail painfully close to the quick and so I have to file it and pray that it doesn't snag on any thing to make the crack go any further thus forcing me to painfully remove it.

3. When my stomach growls are audible to other people. There's absolutely nothing you can do to supress a stomach growl. (Other than eat.)

There are others, but these were the ones weighing on me.

Oh, one last random thing. I've learned enough French to make a voicemail recording. You know, "leave your name and number" kind of thing. The one I have now is in English and Spanish, but now I'm going to change it to English and French. Chic!

Political Saturday Musings

Politics and Bloodlust
I have a friend who likes UFC fights. You know where two guys get in there and beat the stew out of each other not just with punches, but in "mixed martial arts" style. Though I formerly looked at it with disdain as a primeval, bloody free for all, I changed my attitude a bit when I came to understand a little about the expertise and skill it takes to win.

I also realized that I have my own brand of bloodlust. It's not with people literally drawing blood, but verbally drawing blood. It dawned on me last night as I got all fired up for the first presidential debate. I was ready for a fight. I wanted to see blood. I wanted to see Obama rip into McCain and completely own him, leaving him bloodied and bruised, cowering and sputtering with a little trickle of verbally drawn blood seeping out of the trembling corner of his mouth. I was disappointed. There was a little bit of tit for tat—even the moderator was trying to make them fight. He was all like, "I want you to directly address him," and Obama smiled that Colgate smile, turned to McCain and said, "All right, John . . . " lol.

They drew contrasts, but not in any way that threw any knockout punches. It was more like they were both preaching to their respective choirs. But still, I love to see my boy in action. I love when he says, "Now, let's be clear . . . " It's like his little phrase to set the record straight. Anyway, this was just the first one. There will be others to look forward to. But now we have the VP debates this coming Thursday. lol. Aw, that's gonna be a mess. Which brings me to my next musings . . .

Palin
I have posted in the past about how inexperienced she is and how she is so clueless it's a crime that she was chosen. I've changed my attitude a little bit towards her, though. And it happened after I saw excerpts of her recent interview with Katie Couric. It's not that she's any less clueless, but instead of feeling this condescending, "she is sooooo unqualified" feeling, I felt sorry for her. Like, truly. It feels unfair. I mean, how can she be expected to be this foreign policy or economic policy expert? Look at where she's come from! Think about where (and how) she graduated, and what her job(s) was/were before the VP pick. There's no way she could be this . . . policy savvy lady right now. I mean, on the big, grand, world stage. But now that she's in this position, she's expected to be. And she's way in over her head. But it's not even her fault. Well, it's slightly her fault in that she accepted the VP nomination, but other than that, it leaves a sour taste in my mouth about McCain's blatant recklessness. It feels like she's being used. And as a woman, I feel true sympathy for her and it ticks me off a little bit. Like, it was painful watching her give convoluted, sputtering answers to Couric's questions. So much so that I'd feel badly posting bits of the interview of my blog. It wasn't even funny.

The Veep Debates
I've already talked about Biden's status as a gaffe machine. I've already mentioned Palin's unpreparedness. Put those two together, and you're bound to have some theater. Part of me feels badly even writing that. That our concepts of politics and policy have devolved into concepts of entertainment, bloodlust and theater. But you know that's going to be some mess. Biden jovially letting things fly and Palin as a deer caught in the headlights. But the show must go on, right?

One Last Thing . . . the Bailout
Ay, caramba indeed. This is what kills me, though. We can't have universal health care. We can't raise taxes on the wealthiest Americans to try to dig the country as a whole out of this absurd hole. That's pinko communist manifesto socialist "European" style stuff. We can't have that. It's unAmerican. Oh, but we CAN use a criminal amount of taxpayer money to bail out Wall Street. It's unAmerican to use "socialist" policy to help out people who are struggling, but peachy to subsidize the fat cats who got us into this mess. Welfare for Wall Street. Unbelievable. It's like punishing your kid for wrecking your jalopy by giving him the keys to a brand new Lexus. But, like I said, the show must go on.

You're killing me, Biden

If you haven't noticed, I want Barack Obama to win. But Biden keeps letting things slip that are not exactly helping my boy out.

First he says Hillary would have been a better VP pick than him. What?? Then he ticks off Ohioans by making some comments about their football team. Biden, sweetie, Ohio is a swing state. I mean, not that what he said did irreparable damage, but why? Then today I read that he said an Obama ad was "terrible." Egads!

If I could sit down and have a talk with Biden, woman to man, this is what I would say: Look, Joe, I know you're excited about being on the ticket. I mean, seriously, it's something to be excited about. Even though you talked junk about my boy during the primaries, I know you're giddy that in the end you were chosen to be along for the ride. But you have GOT to rein it in, buster. Okay. You have a bad rep for being long winded and I know you've made concerted efforts to take it down a thousand. I appreciate that. Additionally, I know you've got this rep to uphold for speaking your mind and everything, and that's fine. But there is a difference between speaking your mind and having an acute case of diarrhea of the mouth. And you're leaning towards the latter. You're killing me, Biden. Not only that, but you're probably tempting my boy's staff to slap the taste out of your mouth and put a gag order on you. Try to control the urges. Breathe. Carry a sock around with you to use in case of an emergency. Do whatever you need to do to stop yourself from messing up my boy's chances. Thank you.

I Like Brit Pop

I don't know why I like this darn song so much. I guess I like the melancholy melody. I guess I just generally like brit pop, too. And then when I saw the video, I was just entranced. I like how the guy in the beginning is just kind of chilling sitting there on the cliff, overlooking the water and the rocks. I want to do that. I want to be in that place. I like how passionately the guys sing into the mics in the end, like they're about to eat the mics or something. And I like how bunches of water jets burst up behind them in the end. And I like their shaggy British hair.

Good Melancholy Morning

It's a sunny, fresh, new day. I don't have class until 12. I have a fuzzy afghan draped over my shoulders, nursing a strawberry yogurt and granola parfait, waiting for the water to boil for my standard cup of Lipton chai tea.

I flipped to September 19th on my desk calendar and read the quote of the day: "The foolish person seeks happiness in the distance, the wise grow it under their feet."

(sigh.) I suppose I'm a fool. Thanks a lot, desk calendar.

I don't know what it means to grow happiness under my feet. If it means,"Make it happen for yourself," then I'm in trouble. It's not that I'm averse to the idea of making it happen, it's just that everytime I've tried, it ended up being a manufactured engineering of something that wasn't meant to be. I know where I am. I'm in what Dr. Seuss called "The Waiting Place" in his standard graduation gift book, Oh, the Places You'll Go!:

You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.

Some windows are lighted. But mostly they're darked.

A place you could sprain both you elbow and chin!

Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?

How much can you lose? How much can you win?

And IF you go in, should you turn left or right...

or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?

Or go around back and sneak in from behind?

Simple it's not, I'm afraid you will find,

for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.

You can get so confused

that you'll start in to race

down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace

and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,

headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.

The Waiting Place...

...for people just waiting.

Waiting for a train to go

or a bus to come, or a plane to go

or the mail to come, or the rain to go

or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow

or waiting around for a Yes or a No

or waiting for their hair to grow.

Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite

or waiting for wind to fly a kite

or waiting around for Friday night

or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake

or a pot to boil, or a Better Break

or a sting of pearls, or a pair of pants

or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.

Everyone is just waiting.

NO!

That's not for you!
Somehow you'll escape

all that waiting and staying.

You'll find the bright places

where Boom Bands are playing.

Okay, Dr. Seuss, it's nice to know that "somehow" I'll escape. The Boom Bands are out there somewhere, right? But I get the sense that somehow, in general, it's not healthy to want "escape." Escape is unrealistic. Escape is naive. Escape is for wusses. Escape is for dreamers. Escape is for sell-outs. It's more virtuous to "endure," right? Enduring is hard core. Enduring puts meat on your bones. Enduring puts steel in your spine. Enduring sticks to your ribs. Enduring yanks you up by the scruff of the neck and sets you down on rough-hewn planks in the middle of the woods and sets raw liver in front of you on a dented tin plate and says in a weathered baritone, "Eat it, son. It'll make a man out of you." I BEEN through the fi-ya, bless God!

I mean, it's cool. In reality, I don't have anything to complain about. It's just that I feel like I've been plunged into a glass tank of lukewarm chicken noodle soup. Nothing's burning me, all the nourishment that I need is surrounding me, it's just that the view from the tank is a little cloudy.

The title of this article absolutely killed me

I'm easily amused, I know. But I couldn't help myself when I read this in Time.

I kind of have a personal connection to this whole little kerfluffle, too. I was in Spain when the train bombings happened which completely changed the political climate in Spain just in time for the elections in 2004 (for reasons that I don't entirely agree with, but oh, well). In the beginning, Zapatero wasn't expected to have a chance, but in the end, his party won by a landslide.

Pobre McCain. Maybe he is a tad too viejo for the job, no?

Bewildering

This is what happens when markets are left unregulated. It's bewildering that subprime mortgage loans were even allowed to exist. And not just exist, but exist in such an irresponsible, disgustingly deceptive way. Now the walls come tumbling down, and the trickle down theory is exhibited at its finest. The consequences of Wall Street greed are not only affecting the perpetrators, they're trickling down to us.

What'chu got to say about THAT, français?

Oui, oui. C'est moi!

My only response is, "Ay, caramba!"

I'm supposed to be creating a test for Intermediate Spanish I for my faculty mentor. And I'm slowly working on it. But politics easily distract me, and I just have to get this off my chest.

In one way, I'm glad that the Republican party has made the historic choice of a woman as a vice presidential candidate. It's about time, right? But in another way, I'm flabbergasted. Choosing a woman, regardless of speculation over why a woman was chosen in this particular instance, fantastic. But why a woefully inexperienced Palin, as great of a motivator as she may be and as tenacious of a hockey mom as she may be? I cringe to watch her responses concerning vital, crucial issues. I don't mean to rain on anyone's parade, but it's embarrassing and a little frightening to think that if the Reps win, and if, God forbid, McCain kicks the bucket, this is commander-in-chief:

Bush doctrine? What's that?

Like, I actually felt sorry for her watching this one . . . it was so obvious she didn't have a clue. It's like, I've had those moments where I was asked something which was way over my head to even attempt to answer. And knowing that feeling, I felt embarrassed for her.

War with Russia?

Though I don't agree with Russia's tactics at all, and though I do not agree that they are in anyway justified for what went down in South Ossetia, it's disingenuous to say that they were completely unprovoked. "They're our next-door neighbors" gives you relevant insight?! And to hint at a possible necessity of war with them . . . dear God.

National security = Energy policy?

Charlie is trying to have patience with her and is being a gentleman by not unleashing a Chris Matthews-style owning on her. But he's letting some of his confoundment with her answers show.

Please don't assume I'm suffering from the effects of a haterade overdose. My dismay has nothing to do with a dislike of her personally. To her credit, she is personable, has connected with a lot of people, she has energized the Republican base and added vigor to the ticket. But my dismay arises from a concern with the lack of judgment involved in choosing her.

My question is simply, "Why?" And my only response is, "Ay, caramba!"

I Don't Call Boys . . . Usually

In spite of my liberal political views, at the end of the day, I'm pretty old school.

I don't call boys. Like, if a guy wants to talk to me, he can ask for my number, and if I want to talk to him, I'll give him my number, and he can call me. But I'm (usually) not going to call him.

I was trying to explain this concept to a male friend of mine who thought my "I don't call boys" policy was ludicrous and 18th century. I tried to clarify myself a little. It kind of depends on the boy. If it's a brother-boy, then I might be more apt to call him, like for a specific reason. Like to ask a question or something. But even then, there are very rare brother-boys that I'll call just to shoot the breeze with or for a sympathetic ear. (That is reserved almost exclusively for girl friends.) The male friend to whom I was trying to explain my policy is classified as a brother-boy, for example. I may call him for specific reasons, (though I am loath to be the one to call in general) but I don't call him to shoot the breeze (although he may call me for that reason).

Then, there is another category of boy. This one is hard to categorize because it's not exactly defined. It's more like official-friend-but-interested-boy. This is the category of boy that I never call, the only exception being if he calls me and I can't talk right then, so I call him back. My reasoning is:

1. If he is interested in talking to me, he'll call.

2. I'm old-school and I feel that the man should be the one to initiate things.

3. I don't want to either make myself too available or be bothersome by being in the guy's grill 24/7. I prefer to give him space.

4. This may sound a little medieval, but I want him to pursue me. Not vice versa.

Then, brother-boy said, "But what if he's shy? Like what if he's not sure how you feel and he needs encouragement?" Well, I know there are shy guys, but honestly, I feel that you should be man enough to call me if you want to talk to me. There are other ways for a girl to give a guy encouragement without blowing up his phone. In other words, if a shy guy wants to call me and I want him to call me, he'll know.

Then, brother-boy cried, "But isn't that just giving the man all the power in the relationship? Aren't you in effect just sitting around waiting for him to call you?" I say nay. He may have a certain type of power, but I have a type of power too. He may have the power over whether to call, but I have the power over whether to answer. And if someone has "power" because I've voluntarily given it to him and I want him to have it, is that being dominated? And I'm not sitting around waiting. I don't have time to sit around, really. At least not since I've been in grad school.

Now, am I occasionally the one to initiate an exchange of special texts and/or witty emails? Perhaps. But that's not the same thing as calling someone. Not to me.

I can't be the only one who has a boy phone policy. I would think that guys would prefer to be the callers . . . but I'm not sure because I don't have a guy mind. (Nor would I really want to. Eww.)

Questions I Have, in Light of the Facts

Yep. It's going to be political this time.

These are facts which are easily corroborated:

1. President Bush has been the President of the United States for the last eight years.

2. 82 percent of Americans feel the country is on the wrong track.

3. McCain says he's a maverick, and is going to bring change to Washington.

4. John McCain has voted in agreement with Bush 95 percent of the time.

5. John McCain says, "The fact is, I have agreed with President Bush far more than I've disagreed with him. On the transcendent issues, the most important issues of our day, I've been in total agreement and supportive of President Bush."

6. Synonyms for the word 'change' according to Merriam-Webster's Thesaurus: alteration, difference, modification, redoing, refashioning, remaking, remodeling, revamping, revise, revision, reworking, variation.

7. The pertinent meaning for 'maverick' according to Merriam-Webster's Dictionary: "An independent individual who does not go along with a group or party."

In light of these facts, these are the questions I have:

1. If fact #2 is true, is it safe to say that the overwhelming majority of Americans feel that change must happen?

2. How can change or any of the synonyms for it (see fact #6) happen in the US if the person who becomes the next leader of the country is in "total agreement" with the way things have been done for the last eight years (see fact #1) on "the most important issues of our day"?

3. How can John McCain claim to be a maverick (see fact #7) in light of facts #4 and #5?

4. What is John McCain going to do to alleviate fact #2 that differs in any significant way from what Bush and his administration has done for the past eight years (see fact #1) in light of facts #4 and #5?

I'm just asking. Inquiring minds want to know.

Special

Every once in a while, as I'm prone to do, I'll develop a crush. A word crush, that is. Usually my word crushes are what a friend of mine calls SAT words. Snobby words that I used to get sarcastically high-fived for if I let one slip. But compared to the others, my latest word crush is not as pretentious. (Oops, there I go.) Lately, I've been taken with the word 'special.' According to Webster, 'special' means:

1. distinctive or unique
2. exceptional; unusual
3. highly valued
4. of or for a particular purpose, etc.
5. general; specific

But for some reason, to me, 'special' has an element of surprise about it. When I want something special to happen, what I mean is that I want something pleasantly out of the ordinary to happen.

I will also admit that there is something special, well, that I feel is special, that gets me to wishing special things. And, it may be odd, but I know I can't be the only one who has a . . . special sign. My special sign is the time 12:34. I know, that's ludicrous, right? But if I look at a digital clock at the exact time of 12:34 (it has to be unpremeditated, or it doesn't count), then it means, well, the only way I can explain it is that it means something special. The closest equivalent is something akin to God smiling on me.

Call me crazy, but I guarantee that the next time you see 12:34 on a digital clock, you'll smile. You'll feel special.

P.S. To those for whom words set hearts a flutter, Google has a cool feature. Just type in "define:" followed by whatever word or term you want to know the meaning of and watch a delicious litany of options (with links) pop up.

I need to be doing my article summary for Spanish American Theater, but . . .

I'm upset. How dare anyone else have a Don Miller crush?

Just click here and scroll down to "Cass" and then to "Christina."

Grrr . . . I'M the only one allowed to love him!

A Reason to Be Informed

I love the news. I love being in the know on current events. I love opinion columns and political ticker updates. And . . . okay, I like the less noble stuff too—Maureen Dowd's hilarious offerings of equal-opportunity haterade at the New York Times, snarky commentary on Slate, watching Chris Matthews give people the beatdown on Hardball and stuff like that.

I'm a CNN girl too. Now, I realize that not everyone is a news/politics junkie, and that's okay. Honestly, I'm getting kind of weary of the media's feeding frenzy concerning Sarah Palin's daughter's pregnancy . . . you have to draw the line somewhere. But I digress. What I'm saying is that even if you aren't into this stuff, there is a little . . . shall we say, motivator, who can be found over at CNN. If you find yourself waxing apathetic over being informed, believe me, T.J. Holmes will give you a reason to want to be informed. Ladies, don't bite your knuckes too hard!

The Stories They Don’t Tell in Sunday School

It wasn’t until college that I read the Bible the whole way through for the first time. Before then, I will admit that there were a few stories, especially in the Old Testament, that I was completely unaware of.

Let me start by saying this: If the Bible were made into a feature-length film, it would be rated R, unequivocally. It’s the Word of God, but there are some pretty scandalous things in there. Kids learn about Noah’s ark and all the smiling little animals that went along on the ride, but they don’t learn about how a few chapters later, Noah was found naked and drunk in his tent. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating that children be taught about that ignominious little chapter in Noah’s life in Sunday School. I’m just saying that when you don’t read the Bible for yourself, you miss out on a lot.

It was almost 10 years ago. I was 17. I was going through a phase, well, not exactly a phase, but let’s say I was developing a sense of women’s spiritual empowerment. I know there are some hard core people out there who disagree, but I believe that God also calls women to do anything men are traditionally called to do, including preaching and pastoring. And at 17, I was determined to find examples of women leaders in the Bible to prove all the naysayers wrong. I checked out a book from the church library called All the Women in the Bible. And the book was exactly what the title declared it to be—an account of every single woman ever mentioned in any shape, form or fashion in the Bible, even women not mentioned by name. While reading, I came across a magnificent story that I had never read before.

The story can be found in Judges 4. Deborah was the current judge of the Israelites (and if that isn’t a clear biblical example of a woman in a leadership role, then I don’t know what is), and they were going into battle against this Canaanite captain, Sisera. The Israelite captain, Barak, was being a sissy and told Deborah he wouldn’t go to war unless she went with him. She was like, “Fine, I’ll go with you, but know that the honor is not going to you because a woman will be the one to take out Sisera.” Barak then proceeded to annihilate Sisera’s army, but Sisera got away. However, this lady named Jael saw him and persuaded him to hide for a while in her tent. She was all nice, gave him some milk and a comfy blanket, and he fell asleep. Then, the unthinkable happened. She grabbed a tent spike and a hammer, padded softly over to where Sisera lay, and then drove the tent spike clear through his temples into the ground. Barak finally caught up to where Sisera had fled, and Jael went out to meet him. She said, “Hey, Barak, I have a little surprise for you,” flipped back the flap of her tent, and revealed the tent spike-punctured Sisera, bloodied and utterly dead.

I’m telling you, until I read that book, I had NEVER read that story in the Bible on my own. I was enthralled with it. I thought it was the coolest story ever. And I became enchanted with the name Jael. I told myself that if I ever had a daughter, I would name her Jael.

I was recently reminded of the coolness of that story, and I found the exact entry amidst my angst-ridden scribblings of yesteryear where I first described my captivation with both the story and the heroine’s name. It was a beautiful rediscovery because now I know that someone else liked the story enough to want to one day name their daughter Jael, too.